


Mal Vignettes #2

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Mal [20]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal helps Trip with target practice, and the crew with a difficult diplomatic meal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mal Vignettes #2

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Marcus wanted all the senior staff scoring eighty-five percent or better in phase pistol targeting practice. Actually, he wanted everyone on the ship scoring ninety-nine percent or better; but since he wasn't allowed to bully anyone but his own Armory staff with constant drills, he had to settle for whatever Captain Archer would allow him. This quarter, that was eighty-five percent for senior staff.

Trip's average tended to be, well, a little lower. Not a _lot_ lower. Seven out of ten. Fifteen out of twenty. But low enough that he found himself on the receiving end of an order—"from the Captain" but worded suspiciously like a certain terse Armory Officer—to make time for extra practice. As if Trip just had to cancel a few of those spa appointments he was always jaunting off to or something like that.

But Trip knew it did no good to protest, so promptly at 1900 Thursday evening he reported to the Armory, finding himself stuck in the same remedial training session with Travis and Hoshi. Of course, Mal had to come along.

"Please please _please_?" he'd begged. "I'll sit in the corner. I'll be _so_ quiet. You won't even notice me."

"It's gonna be boring," Trip warned. "We're just gonna be shooting at stuff. Why don't you stay here and read or… clean or something?"

No, Mal _must_ accompany Trip. Fine. He was now, as promised, sitting in the corner, being _so_ quiet, and Trip really _hadn't_ noticed him. The first thing on Marcus's list of Archer-sanctioned torture and abuse was disassembling and reassembling the phase pistols; so naturally Trip was devoting most of his mental energy to thinking of ways he could retaliate against Marcus using his engineering power and wiles, with a far smaller percentage going to the potentially explosive puzzle in his hands. Which was probably why Trip was dead last in this particular task.

Marcus looked smug. "Aren't you supposed to be _good_ at putting things together, Commander?" he needled his friend, making an overly long comment on his data pad. Clearly the man needed a hobby. Another hobby, that is. "Well, perhaps you can just go first with the targeting practice, hmm?" Trip's glare did nothing to intimidate him.

Marcus unleashed his pet, the practice target, from its box, sending it whizzing into the air. About the size of a softball, covered in lights and sensors, it boasted its own anti-gravity unit and mini-thrusters to change direction at random. And—important, considering they were standing in a room full of torpedoes and other explosives—it reacted to the harmless light beams produced by Marcus's modified practice phase pistols as if they were the real deal. Maybe, Trip thought, the next time Marcus sent one of his babies to Engineering for repair, Trip could rig it to shatter at the first shot, or perhaps spew colorful insults…

"Commander?" Marcus prompted. "Were you going to shoot at it, or just try to stare it down?"

"I'll have you know, I was winnin' 'til you distracted me," Trip joked. He turned back to the flying target, took aim, and—

There was a sudden movement off to the side and Marcus shouted something. Trip turned his head but saw only a blur at first, until finally it coalesced into—"Mal!"

The dark-haired man seemed oblivious to Trip's exclamations. He was fixated on the twitching, blinking target, leaping into the air after it, chasing it back and forth across the room, his eyes never leaving it even when he stumbled over something.

Well, Trip supposed he really should have expected this. "Can you turn that thing off for a second?" he asked Marcus wearily. "I'll send him home."

Marcus gave his friend a look and moved to the control panel. Before he could power down the target, however, Mal tried a new method to obtain it: he climbed up a stack of crates and leaped out into the air, tackling the target and rolling with it to the ground. It was set to hover within a specific height range and tried to escape from Mal's grasp, but in vain—he merely beat the metal sphere hard against the deck plating, repeatedly and with intense concentration, until it sparked and gave up its life with a sputter.

Then he brought it to Trip.

"Lookit, lookit, lookit!" Mal insisted eagerly, dropping to his knees before Trip and holding up his prize. "Look what I caught for you! Isn't it pretty? Aren't you proud of me?"

His eyes had the same slightly glazed look they got when he was chasing the remote control ball Trip had made for him… an object not dissimilar from the practice target, now that Trip thought about it. He took the remains of the metal sphere, which were starting to smoke. "Um, yeah, buddy… wow, that was… great."

Mal threw his arms around Trip's waist and squeezed. "I caught it for _you_! All for you! Because I love you _so much_!"

Trip handed the corpse of the target to Marcus. Then he handed his phase pistol to Hoshi. Then he hauled Mal up to his feet and headed for the door. "Okay, we're going home now."

"Don't you want to take it with us?" Mal said. Marcus was staring sadly at the remains of his equipment—he had seen targets damaged before, but never with such… vehemence.

"No, let's let Marcus keep it for us," Trip suggested, dragging Mal away.

 

***

 

Trip stared at the display of food on the low table with something akin to horror. "I can't let Mal see this," he hissed to Archer.

The Captain turned to him sharply. "You invited _Mal_?!" he said under his breath. "It's going to be hard enough to avoid a diplomatic incident as it is—"

Trip turned as the door to the transformed Mess Hall opened, admitting an eager Mal. The engineer dodged a few milling crewmembers and sprinted to the door, barring Mal before he'd taken two steps inward. "Uh, Mal," he began, trying to be swift and discreet at the same time, "why don't you eat dinner in our cabin tonight, huh? Call the steward from there, ask him to bring you whatever you want."

Mal was immediately petulant. "You said I could come to the party and have party food!"

For a guy who was allegedly tuned to Trip's emotions, he didn't always pick up on things quickly. Or maybe he understood but just didn't care. "I know, Mal, but—"

"Chief Engineer Tucker and friend," said a low, monotone voice, and Trip looked down at the meter-tall alien who stood beside them. "Please, join us for our feast."

Trip looked over and saw that most of the senior staff had already been trapped. "Thank you," Mal said politely, brushing by Trip. "How lovely!"

The seating arrangements were to Mal's taste at least: they were all sitting on the floor in a circle, the small, greyish Talpans interspersed with _Enterprise_ personnel. Everyone but T'Pol and Mal squirmed uncomfortably on the carpet, and T'Pol was only still because Vulcan discipline forbade squirming.

Then the Talpans started passing the food around, and Trip braced himself to grab Mal and make a quick getaway, leaving Archer and T'Pol to pick up the diplomatic pieces. Kind of dirty, Trip knew, but better than trying to make Mal stay and behave. Conveniently, it would also get Trip out of the feast as well. The engineer took the bowl that was handed to him by a Talpan named Hrrrm, forcing a smile on his face and being very thankful the visitors had poor vision.

"This is called _wrkuna_ ," Hrrrm informed him in his flat voice. "A traditional way to begin a special meal."

"Wow, this looks so… amazing," Trip told him. "Uh, how do I pick… it… up?"

Hrrrm reached stubby, clawed fingers into the bowl Trip held and expertly pulled out two live, squiggling, writhing creatures, not dissimilar to earthworms. Trip swallowed hard. "Uh, just put them on my plate there, thanks," he suggested.

" _Wrkuna_ should be eaten right away, while lively and fresh," Hrrrm advised, holding the worms up for Trip.

Hesitantly, wishing he had thought to have Hess stage a sudden warp core meltdown right about now, Trip reached out and took the offered worms. Their blind heads—or were those their tails?—twined around his fingers, surprisingly rough and bristly. Hrrrm gestured encouragingly. Trip glanced across the circle and made eye contact with Jon, who seemed to be in a similar position. Beside Archer, T'Pol held no worms—and Trip was just about to claim a conversion to vegetarianism when Mal popped into his field of view.

"Ooh! Worms!" And Mal pulled the creatures from Trip's fingers and slurped them down. "Yummy. Like _gagh_ but fuzzier." Trip stared at him. "Well, are you going to pass me that bowl, or hoard them all for yourself?"

 

"I hope our people will continue the friendship we've begun today," Archer was telling the Talpan captain.

"As do I, Captain Archer," Grrrp agreed. "I wish to thank all of your officers for making us feel so welcome." And she did, walking to T'Pol, Trip, Marcus, Hoshi, and Travis in turn to express her gratitude. Each knelt so the small alien could pat their nose in the traditional Talpan gesture of departure. Then all of Grrrp's officers who had attended the dinner thanked each of the _Enterprise_ crew personally as well, so that at least another ten minutes passed before the last little grey alien stepped over the threshold leading to their ship.

As soon as the airlock door hissed shut, the crew fell out—slumping against the walls, even sitting right down on the deck plating. Almost all were grimacing and clutching their stomachs.

"That was disgusting!"

"I'm never going to be able to eat again."

"I feel sick."

"Did you hear what was in that brownish-red stuff?"

"Stop right there, I _don't_ want to know."

"That was the worst food I've ever eaten."

"I've eaten worse things in survival training." This was from Marcus. "But I didn't have to pretend I liked it."

"Embracing new cultures is not without sacrifice," T'Pol chided them. "You must learn to be more adaptable."

"Easy for _you_ to say," Trip retorted. "Only thing _you_ had to eat were those root vegetables. That's hardly on par with live worms—"

"—rodents on a stick—"

"—mashed insect soup—"

"—fried bird livers—"

"—snake's brain pudding—"

"Stop, I'm really gonna be sick!"

"Hey, didn't the sauce on those root vegetables contain some kind of reptile blood?"

Everyone turned to look at T'Pol. She fixed the speaker with a cold gaze. "And where did you obtain this information, Ensign?"

"That's what Lrrrk said when she handed it to me," Hoshi shrugged.

"I was not aware of that," T'Pol replied, tensing her jaw.

"Where the h—l's Mal with the—" The crew turned hopefully down the hall as Mal jogged towards them.

"Here you go!" Cheerfully he began passing out chalky white tablets which the officers consumed gratefully.

"Thanks, buddy," Trip sighed as Mal helped him to his feet. "Think I'm about ready to turn in after all _that_ fun."

Mal followed, lighter on his feet. "Mmm, that was a delightful meal. I asked Chef to save some leftovers for me. Of course the squirmy worms won't be as good when they aren't fresh—"

"Just—stop," Trip told him, feeling queasy. "Don't talk about it anymore." He made sure his stomach had settled before adding, "Glad that you enjoyed it, though, buddy." At least _someone_ had.


End file.
